


honey in the middle

by piggy09



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 15:33:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11383089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piggy09/pseuds/piggy09
Summary: Rachel, Cosima, and Delphine have a dinner party.





	honey in the middle

**Author's Note:**

> ...obviously inspired by next week's dinner party. However: this fic was written before S5 started, so there are gonna be some discrepancies between the dialogue in this fic and the places these girls are at in canon! Just to warn you.
> 
> You can read this fic from Cosima's perspective right [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11385402), and Delphine's perspective [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11393013)!

Rachel sits at Westmorland’s right hand. He isn’t dining with them tonight, but she takes the seat to the right anyways – the seat at the head of the table, she leaves open. She wonders for a moment whether or not to place her napkin in her lap already, but decides that seems too eager. Despite herself anticipation thrums in the cords of her neck and the pit of her chest. The dress she’s wearing is black lace, and it plunges low enough that the skin between her breasts is cold. She can feel the chain of her necklace against her skin every time she swallows. She keeps swallowing.

 _Here I am_ , she thinks. _Here I am, waiting for you_.

On cue: the door opens. They enter together, Cosima and Delphine, holding hands. Cosima is wearing a suit, Delphine a white dress with sheer paneling all the way up to the neck. When they enter the room their hands drop; despite looking, Rachel can’t see who let go first.

“Cosima,” she says. “Delphine.” She can feel a smile trickling around the corners of her mouth, and she lets it. “Do come in.”

“No,” Cosima says, “no way, I’m not doing this.” She tries to leave, but it’s too late: the man outside the door has closed it, discreetly. All of Westmorland’s men are discreet. Rachel has missed it: security.

“Hello, Rachel,” says Delphine, who has always been the smarter of the two. “We were told Westmorland would be joining us.”

“I’m afraid he’s been delayed,” Rachel says. “Please sit.” She takes the time to touch her wine glass to her lips, take a sip. She tastes just the slightest edge of citrus and it’s gone. She watches the two of them watch the empty chair, the place setting laid out for a man who will not be arriving. She watches them turn into each other, having a conversation she can’t hear. She takes another sip. Citrus, peach, sweetness that goes when she bites down.

They sit. The place settings are laid out such that one of them will sit across from Rachel, and one of them next to her. The dining table is long and – despite herself – Rachel is curious to see whether or not one of them will be childish enough to move a place setting somewhere else. They don’t. Delphine takes the seat across from Rachel, and Cosima sits at Rachel’s right.

“This is bullshit,” Cosima says.

“Cosima,” Delphine says.

“No,” Cosima says. “You said survival, you didn’t say _this_.”

“Maybe this is survival,” Delphine says.

“You should listen to Doctor Cormier, Cosima,” Rachel says, finally unfolding her napkin and spreading it over her black lace lap. “She’s been playing this game for far longer than you.”

“What did you to do Sarah,” Cosima says, and then the first course comes. One man pours each of them soup, and another follows filling up Cosima and Delphine’s glasses and topping up Rachel’s.

“2010 Monteverro chardonnay,” Rachel says. “Fairly new, but interesting enough to warrant a place at the table.”

“I don’t give a shit about the wine,” Cosima says.

“ _Cosima_.”

“I think you should,” Rachel says. Her voice comes out sharp. “I think you should open your eyes to the fact that you have an opportunity here, Cosima, before you go back to scrabbling in the dirt with your roots and sticks.” Like Sarah, but she doesn’t say that. Her chest rises and falls as she breathes. She takes another sip of wine, it’s too sweet, it’s not sweet enough.

“The soup is delicious,” Delphine says.

“Isn’t it,” Rachel says, echoing Delphine’s polite non-tone. Next to her Cosima unfolds her napkin, shoves it in her lap, starts eating soup. Her anger is palpable. Rachel could touch it, if she wanted to.

“How goes the cure, Doctor Cormier,” she says, and they both stiffen. Amateurs. “Don’t be naive. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice the missing vial? Mr. Westmorland is all in favor of a cure, he’s very invested in your efforts.” She takes another sip of wine. “As am I.”

In the resulting silence, she tries the soup. Delphine was right: it’s very good.

“We’d be making better progress if you hadn’t gone full _Psycho_ on our creator,” Cosima mutters. She sees something in Delphine’s expression that Rachel doesn’t, and she sips more soup. “Fine,” she says. “It’s going. Obviously we’re limited because of the – _hut_ we’re in, but it’s going.”

“Cosima is making admirable progress,” Delphine says, smiling something warm over at Cosima. Rachel flicks her eyes over to Cosima and watches her soften, turning like a sunflower to the warmth of Delphine’s smile. Then she blinks over at Rachel and hastily gulps down half her glass of wine.

“Yeah, well,” Cosima says. “Have my lab partner back, don’t I.”

They smile at each other, and suddenly Rachel is seven years old again – lying on a bed, reading about Project Leda, knowing the sudden stab wound of something that she could not have. She’d told herself at the time that she would have it anyways. She tells herself, now, that she will have it anyways. She shifts her facial expression slightly; when Delphine catches it she clears her throat and hastily drinks more wine. Good.

* * *

They go through a bottle. They go through a second. Rachel drinks barely any, two glasses maybe, carefully unfolds Cosima and Delphine just a little bit at a time as the dinner goes on. Delirious from each other’s company they barely even notice her; they stumble over each other to tell stories, Cosima’s hands flitting in and out of Rachel’s space repeatedly. The fish course is salmon with sorrel sauce and Rachel lets it melt citrus-sour on her tongue before she slides in comments, here, there, enough for them to open up their conversation to fit her.

Partway through the fish, the warmth of the room makes Cosima lose her suit coat. She goes to drape it over the back of the chair but one of the men in the room steps in, politely takes it and goes to hang it up. Cosima fumbles her way out of her waistcoat and drapes _that_ over her chair. Rachel and Delphine both watch Cosima’s wrists as she rolls her sleeves up. Rachel lets her eyes cut early to Delphine, before Delphine looks up; when Delphine meets her eyes, Rachel raises her eyebrows. Delphine flushes.

“Shit,” Cosima says, as she tugs fruitlessly at the bow tie around her neck. Delphine must have tied it for her, nimble fingers, her knuckles brushing up against the bare skin of Cosima’s neck.

“Here,” Rachel says. “Let me.” She’s tied and untied bow ties before, and so she makes quick work of it. The fabric hangs loose around Cosima’s neck. Rachel lets her hand linger there for a second too long and then goes back to finishing her salmon.

“You were discussing viral vectors,” Rachel says.

“Oh,” Cosima says, after a second. “Uh, yeah. We were—”

“We’ve been using adaptors,” Delphine says. “Or – euhm.” She lapses into French: “We’ve been trying to, but coupling the targeting ligand to the vector has been difficult.”

“Have you tried coupling denoviral vectors with receptor-ligand fusions,” Rachel says back, her French immaculate.

“Yes,” Delphine says, “but that presents its own difficulties—” She stops; her mouth twists. She hurriedly drinks more wine. “Sorry,” she says in English.

“Don’t be,” Rachel says. “It’s charming.”

The train of her dress pools on the ground; that’s how she can feel a foot moving through it, and _that_ is how she knows that Cosima has brushed her foot against Delphine’s leg. Interesting. Also interesting: the look Delphine gives Cosima, somewhere been patiently amused and irritated. She turns back to Rachel.

“This would be easier,” she says, “if Westmorland would give us a lab.”

“He has his reasons,” Rachel says, “or so I’ve been told.” She gestures to one of the servers to clear the plates and bring desserts – a calculated slip, as if she’s uncomfortable discussing the subject. Cosima takes the bait beautifully.

“So he doesn’t tell you everything,” she says, leaning in too close. Even with her jacket off she’s too warm – fever warm, Rachel could say. Cosima has coughed a few times during their meal and it’s very possible that her mouth tastes like blood. The server puts dishes of sorbet in front of each of them, smoothly takes the wine away and replaces it with port. Rachel puts a spoonful of sorbet in her mouth and lets the harsh citrus of it eat away at her tongue.

“No,” she says, “he doesn’t.” She lets her voice echo slightly melancholy. She looks away. Under the table Cosima’s foot settles back where it was. Rachel looks at her sorbet to give the two of them the chance to look at each other; she digs her spoon in, sending rivulets of partially-melted blood orange sliding into the bowl. Then she sighs politely, spoons more sorbet into her mouth. Her tongue darts out to her lips and away again before it can smudge her lipstick.

When she looks up, they’re both looking at her. Delphine’s lower lip is pulled between her teeth.

* * *

The dessert course ends, and they are left around the table. Rachel has discreetly nodded the guards outside; the bottle of port rests on the table, caramel-colored in the light of the candles burning down. Cosima is telling some drunken, meandering story about San Francisco that Rachel could not care less about. Cosima is in the middle of narrating the streets of San Francisco, the winding of them, her hands making serpentine curves in the air, when Rachel slips her foot out of her shoe and runs it idly up Delphine’s thigh.

Delphine stutters a cough, flares her eyes at Cosima. Cosima stops talking, lets her hands wind down. “What,” she says. “What – oh, shit, that’s – you don’t care, sorry, I’m.”

“Oh, no,” Rachel says, “go on.” She pulls her foot back and tilts the full force of her interest towards Cosima. Cosima coughs, looks away.

“I think I’m drunk,” she says.

“We are all maybe too drunk, I think,” Delphine says. She swirls her glass lightly, watches the gold-red dregs in the glass. Her hair is falling in limp almost-curls around her face, frizzing slightly, and Delphine absentmindedly tucks it behind her ear. The golden column of her neck in the candlelight. Rachel looks to the side, watches Cosima watch it.

“Well,” she says. “One so rarely gets the chance to take advantage of the wine cellars of a supercentenarian.”

Cosima snorts. “He’s so _old_ ,” she says, and laughs to herself. Across the table Delphine starts giggling, helplessly. Rachel doesn’t laugh at all, but she allows herself a slight smile and watches them collapse in on themselves. She reaches out and touches Cosima’s shoulder, lightly, before Cosima can hit the table. “Careful,” she says, and strokes the bone of Cosima’s arm through the thin white fabric of her shirt.

“Drunk,” Cosima says, splaying her hands out as a defense.

“Clumsy,” Delphine says lightly.

“Whoa, that one’s new,” Cosima says. “Thought it was cheeky.”

“That also,” Delphine says. They smile at each other and then Cosima tilts her head towards Rachel, and smiles at her too. Rachel looks at Delphine, who is studying her with as much attention as she can muster. Her lower lip is between her teeth again. Rachel can think of all sorts of things to do with _that_ , but instead of doing them she looks back at Cosima again. She fixes Cosima’s collar, even though it isn’t in need of fixing. She looks at Delphine the entire time.

Delphine’s eyes go wide and she looks away. Cosima looks at Delphine, and looks at Rachel, and touches her fingers to her neck, and frowns. Rachel looks at the both of them, gauging. Delphine is looking into space and her eyes are darting frantically back and forth. Cosima swallows.

“Well,” Rachel says, drawing the syllable out. Now Delphine swallows; Cosima folds in on herself, jittering nervously.

“It’s late,” Cosima says. “So. Yeah. Late.”

“Is it really?” Rachel says, politely curious. She pulls the chain of her necklace up, clicks her watch open. It is incredibly late, for the winding down of a dinner. “Time does fly, doesn’t it,” she says, and clicks the watch shut before she lets it dangle down on its chain again. She can feel eyes on the dip in her dress when she does this, and she doesn’t look at whose they are.

“You’ll be staying the night, of course,” she says.

The two of them look at each other. Rachel, satisfied, stands up and touches the tips of her fingers lightly to the table. She is very aware of all the places her dress clings, the way the lace shows her skin. “The bedrooms are upstairs,” she says, and walks to the door. She turns around, touches her fingers lightly to the door frame. She strokes the edges of the wood, light curls of her fingertips.

“Well?” she says. “Are you coming?”

* * *

Westmorland has the master bedroom; there are guest bedrooms, far enough away for discretion. Rachel leads Cosima and Delphine to one of them, patiently allowing them their stumbles. Cosima has unbuttoned her shirt slightly, but there is nothing Delphine can do for her dress so she looks more put-together by default. They aren’t holding hands.

Rachel pushes the door open, steps inside. The bedroom is large, filled with old books and animals under glass. The bed is already made up. She walks further in anyways, as if inspecting, until Cosima and Delphine are both inside. Then she turns around.

“I assume you don’t mind sharing,” she says.

The two of them stare at her, owl-eyed, for a beat – and then Cosima closes her eyes tight and says “Yeah, no, no, we can – we’ve shared a bed with each other before. We’re good.”

Delphine keeps looking at Rachel. She takes a step closer – she was always the smarter of the two of them. Rachel tilts the corner of her mouth up, closes the gap between the two of them, and kisses her.

Delphine tastes like everything she’s been drinking – citrus and ginger, apple and pear. Mostly alcoholic. Rachel sucks Delphine’s lip between her teeth and cradles Delphine’s throat in her hands, hums approval against Delphine’s mouth. She bites down. The sweetness lingers. Delphine makes a choked sound against her lips, wraps her arm around Rachel’s hip and splays her hand over Rachel’s back. Through the lace Rachel can feel the sweating heat of her palm – it’s miserable – she bears it. She keeps on kissing Delphine until the taste of the wine is gone, and then she breaks the kiss and steps back. Delphine’s hand falls, limp, to her side.

“I wondered,” Delphine says. Rachel ignores her and looks at Cosima – who is standing there, face splotched red, mouth slightly open. She might still taste like blood; she might not. Rachel holds out a hand, fingers dangling low, waits. Cosima takes one step closer, two, and looks at Delphine. Whatever she sees in Delphine’s face is enough and – with a half-smile that says this is ridiculous, isn’t it, what a funny game – she kisses Rachel’s knuckles. Then she kisses Rachel’s wrist, and the expression vanishes. Up Rachel’s arm and to her shoulder and to the bared skin of her throat and Delphine is kissing Rachel again and Rachel curls her hands around Delphine, all over Delphine.

 _Mine_ , she thinks, and lets it unfurl in her chest. Cosima is behind her, kissing her neck, hands tangling with Rachel’s hands as they both touch Delphine. Delphine has her hands settled on Cosima’s hips; that puts Rachel between them, but means that no one is touching her. Her chest is a house fire, burning up with something like joy. She teases the split in Delphine’s lip with her tongue, the place she’d bitten down earlier – blood. Rachel breaks the kiss, pulls Cosima’s head off of her neck and towards her own, and kisses her. Blood. Either Delphine’s or Cosima’s, it doesn’t matter, either of them will do.

Rachel can feel Cosima’s hand on her shoulder, pushing the sleeve of her dress down her arm. Rachel breaks the kiss and grabs Cosima’s wrist in a grip like iron. “No,” she says, and manages to slip her way out between the two of them. She looks at Cosima, scrapes her eyes up and down Cosima’s body. “You first.”

Cosima lets out a shaky sigh and unbuttons her shirt, lets it fall to the ground. Rachel holds out one hand and pushes her onto the bed, straddles her lap as best she can with the tightness of her dress. She kisses Cosima, slow and lingering, and then breaks the kiss to bite down hard on the skin of Cosima’s neck.

“ _Shit_ ,” Cosima hisses, and Rachel thinks: _mine_. She bites down again: hers. She keeps thinking about it, the idea that neither of them will be able to touch each other after this without thinking of Rachel. They can kiss each other but Rachel will always be between them. The thought sends heat pooling between her legs – but under the dress, no one can tell. She kisses the bite marks on Cosima’s neck, as if she’s apologizing. Then she slides off. She nods at Delphine.

Cosima is breathing shakily, and her mouth is open, and when Delphine takes Rachel’s place in her lap she lets out a long exhale and kisses her. They’re lovely together, really – they kiss with an ease that can only come from familiarity, from knowing just where and when to bite down. Cosima’s arm slings around Delphine’s neck and pulls her closer, and Rachel can tell, from the way Cosima’s mouth opens, when Delphine is too close to the bite marks Rachel has already left.

The pulse between her legs is insistent. Rachel trails a hand along her thigh, the lace of her dress scratching against her skin, and takes a step forward. She tugs at Delphine’s hair until Delphine breaks the kiss – good girl – and then Rachel is kissing Cosima again. She presses herself up against Delphine’s back and lets her hands stroke at Delphine through her dress, the plane of her stomach, the curve of her breasts. Delphine lets out little whimpering sighs as Rachel lays her hands all over. Delphine is hers. Cosima is hers. They are both hers, and she’s not going to let them go.

Only she does let them go. She steps back. She looks at Cosima’s hands settled on Delphine’s thighs, under her dress, looks at the wide desperation of Cosima’s pupils. Delphine turns around to look at Rachel. They are both turned around, looking at Rachel. If Rachel wanted she could have their mouths, their fingers. She could make them cut each other entirely open right now in front of her, touching each other but saying her name.

She steps to the side of the two of them, tilts Delphine’s head to kiss her again – short, sweet, chaste if that wouldn’t be a mockery. She kisses Cosima again. They all taste the same.

“My room is right next door,” she says, “should you need anything.” Her voice comes out rougher than she’d meant it to, but not enough to bury her. In the resulting stunned silence she leaves and closes the door behind her with fingers that are trembling ever-so-slightly.

She wasn’t lying: her room is next door. She listens to them murmuring through the wall. The words are blurry, like they’re underwater, like they’re Rachel’s childhood idea of what her parents talked about when she wasn’t there to listen. She dreams every syllable of their speech into her own name. _Rachel, Rachel, Rachel_.

The words dissolve into soft, animal sounds. Rachel slips out of her dress. Rachel hangs it up on the hanger. Rachel turns off the light and slides between the covers, feels the way the sheets stroke up against her skin.

The sounds get louder. Rachel is very quiet – she learned to be, a long time ago. Her hand isn’t Cosima’s hand, or Delphine’s hand. When she rocks against it in the dark she knows it’s nobody’s hand but her own.

**Author's Note:**

> It's unfortunate that when we feel a stone  
> We can roll ourselves over 'cause we're uncomfortable  
> Oh well, the devil makes us sin  
> But we like it when we're spinning
> 
> Love is like a sin, my love,  
> For the ones that feel it the most  
> Look at her with her eyes like a flame  
> She will love you like a fly  
> She'll never love you  
> \--"Paradise Circus (Gui Boratto Remix)," Massive Attack
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please kudos + comment if you enjoyed! :)


End file.
